


Absurd, and Without Pretence

by Styfas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Does This Count as Clone Sex? Because I Don't Think So., Dr. Stephen Stanley Makes Only a Few Very Brief Appearances, Gratuitous Blow Job Scene, M/M, Mentions of Various Utopia and Terror Characters, My Apologies to Paul Ready XD, Swearing, Time Travel, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, the crossover that nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styfas/pseuds/Styfas
Summary: The crossover that nobody asked for! XDAfter Lee (Utopia) gets shot in Wilson Wilson's fallout shelter, he manages to climb partway up the shelter's ladder, presumably to exit. Through accidentally finding a portal, he is transported back in time and ends up on HMS Erebus in 1847. Fortunately, Harry D. S. Goodsir (The Terror), who happens to look identical to Lee, is available to give him immediate medical attention. During Lee's two months of convalescence on HMS Erebus, an unlikely friendship of sorts is forged, with each man learning more about himself from having met the other.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir & Lee (Utopia), Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lee (Utopia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw The Terror first. About two months later (why am I always _years_ behind on discovering these wonderful short-lived TV shows?!) I learned about Utopia (UK). Loved both of them, loved both of Paul Ready's characters - and dang it, those two characters couldn't be more different (save their appearance 🤣) - so I thought, hey; why not put these identical twins of opposite personalities into the same room and see what happens? I chose 1847 HMS Erebus as the "room." As if AU, time travel, and crossover weren't enough, there's even Utopia "canon"-divergence here; and the Utopia fans will catch that soon enough. 
> 
> Speaking of Utopia fans: Hello! I'm trying very hard in this fic to give Lee a soul. 🤣
> 
> As always, I must acknowledge and thank [Drac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drac), who introduced me to The Terror in the first place, who put up with my daily abuse of their Facebook messenger, help me with my silly Britglish questions, listen as I bounce my wacky ideas off of them, and support me by reading (not exactly beta reading, but "filtering" - if that makes sense) my supposed final versions of fics. 🧡 OH - also, for suggesting the perfect title for this work of pure authorial conceit (albeit, taken from text within the fic). 🤣
> 
> And, oh yeah, Disclaimers: I don't own any of these shows nor the characters, which belong to anyone who ever had anything to do with the shows. 
> 
> This is fiction - and that's a fact!

Lee refuses to die a humiliating death on the floor of Wilson Wilson’s nuclear fallout shelter. It would serve him right for going out for a fag – but still, he can’t let it end like this: killed by a man who somehow got out of his handcuffs and took him by surprise by shooting him in the gut. If he doesn’t find a doctor soon, it could be all over. 

Lee knows he’s made his first-ever critical mistake. But he’s a good hitman, and he enjoys significant renown as an outstanding practitioner in the art of torture; he’s been told his talents and effectiveness surpass those of the legendary Mr. Omida of decades ago. The Network needs him – but more importantly, he needs the Network. The thought of his possibly being replaced by another compels him to crawl – but with only one arm, as his left arm seems to have gone limp. He inches over to the ladder against the wall of the shelter. The pain in his upper abdomen is a sharp, neon burn, and it doesn’t help that every breath he takes is making it all worse.

He struggles to his feet and looks up, hoping for an easy exit. Fortunately, the trap door is wide open at the top of the shelter’s ladder. After having one eye put out with a spoon and the other eye temporarily blinded by chillies, sand, and bleach, courtesy of Lee’s expert torture tactics, apparently Wilson Wilson had too many other things to think about than shutting the fallout shelter door. 

Gasping for breath, Lee manages to pull himself slowly up the straight ladder by using his right hand and angling his body as flush as possible against the ladder while sidestepping its metal rungs, two feet at a time. He successfully manages three rungs without incident. At the fourth rung, his left foot slips off, then touches it again – after which a burst of orange-yellow light flashes around him, then disappears – and now he finds himself on an angled wooden ladder inside a ship. He cries out in fear and collapses against the ladder, wondering what happened, and terrified of what might happen next. Was that the light that people say one sees at death? No, he can’t be dead; he still feels the pain in his gut and chest, his heart is beating as fast as machine gun fire, and he’s still breathing – unless he’s imagining it all. All right, Imagination, he thinks, _keep climbing_. He finds that he can, so he figures this must all be real – and he’s still alive. These steps are easier to climb, so there’s no longer a need to sidestep. This is no luxury cruise ship; Lee judges it to be over a hundred years old, due to its dim lighting and dank, musty odors. And it’s fucking cold here – wherever “here” is…

Looking upwards, he notices that there is no trap door, only a square opening in a ceiling. Lee works his way up to the top of the ladder, bringing him to a deck on the ship. Once there, he staggers about in circles and surveys his surroundings: oil lamps, long tables, wooden chests on the floor, two tall faucets, an iron stove. He moves tentatively along creaking floorboards, coughing and wheezing, and stops to prop himself up against the wall, just short of a sliding door. He bangs his fist against the door. “Help… Anyone there?”

The sliding door opens, and a man who looks very much like him emerges. He’s the same height, same build, and with the same colour of hair and eyes. And his _face_ ; if Lee didn’t know any better, he’d swear that they’re long-lost identical twin brothers. 

“Good Lord! You’re bleeding something terrible,” says Lee’s double. The man grasps him around back and shoulders and pulls him into a room full of tables and cabinets. “Who are you? And how did you end up here?”

Lee speaks between gasps of breath. “I’ve been shot. I need a doctor.” 

“Technically, I’m not a doctor. I’m a surgeon and an anatomist. But I can help you.” He firmly steers Lee towards a table. “Your breathing is quite laboured, and judging from the site of the wound, my conjecture is that the bullet’s in your lung, Mr… ?”

“Not Mr. Lee. Just… Lee.”

“Harry Goodsir.” 

“Goodsir? Sounds like a Charles Dickens name.”

“You’re not the first.”

“I’ll call you Harry.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Would you be a good sir and help me off with my shirt, please?”

Harry’s eyes go narrow. “Are you making fun of my name again? 

“Look, I don’t want to bleed to death, so I’d appreciate–” 

“Of course,” Harry says. He deftly unbuttons Lee’s shirt, fingers flying as he works from top to bottom. “Lovely colour, your trousers. Except for the blood.”

“They didn’t have yellow in my size, so I settled.” 

“Blue is a beautiful colour. The sky, the sea…” 

“Well, they’re bloodied now. I’ll try to find a yellow suit in my size when I get back to work.”

“What is your profession?” Harry asks as he unbuttons Lee’s shirt cuffs.

Lee thinks fast and comes up with, “I locate books. There’s one extremely rare book that I’ve been working to locate for a very long time.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s also not a lie.

“Fascinating.” Harry peels Lee’s shirt away from his body as he speaks, rendering him shirtless. “You should talk to our Mr. Bridgens. Perhaps he’ll have the book you seek in his library.”

“I doubt that. It’s a book full of colourful illustrations.”

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Indeed.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Matey, but it’s not erotic art.”

Harry rolls up Lee’s shirt and hastily sets it aside on a nearby chair. “I never said–”

“It’s written all over your face. You’re blushing, Harry Goodsir.”

Harry clears his throat. “I’ll have Mr. Bridgens come to see you tomorrow. He has an extensive library, and perhaps he could offer you some reading material while you convalesce.”

“Convalesce?”

“You won’t be leaving here any time soon. This is a serious injury, and you’ll need time to heal. Now, I’m going to have you lie down on the table there, and then we’ll see about getting that bullet out of you.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Lee sets his right forearm on the table and tries to inch himself up, but only succeeds in collapsing against it, crying out in agony. 

“No, no! I didn’t mean you should try it by yourself!” Harry rushes to his side. “Steady, now. If you can get your right arm over my shoulder, I’ll do my best to assist.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use to my left arm, now was I? It’s fucking useless, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Harry doesn’t acknowledge Lee’s comment with words; he only sighs. He gently lifts Lee’s right arm, resting it against his own shoulder. “Hold on tight. Here we go, one, two, three…” and Harry eases him onto the table. “Good, Lee. Good. Stay right there, I’ll be quick.” He leaves the table and rushes about, putting on a surgeon’s apron and sleeve coverings. Narrating aloud a list of supplies as he goes, he gathers various cloths, pans, bottles, and bowls of water, all of which he sets down on a table near Lee’s. “Now, instruments.” He goes to a cabinet, opens the top drawer, and dips his hands inside. 

“You’re not going to use gas on me, are you?” Lee asks. “I don’t want gas.”

“No, we don’t have that. I’ll get you the Peruvian.” 

“What’s that?”

“Wine of coca. A pain reliever and sedative, together in one medicine.”

“No. No drugs.” People will freely divulge information when under the influence, and Lee wants to have his full faculties about him to avoid making more stupid mistakes. 

Harry turns to face him, holding several scalpels and two pairs of what look to be scissor-handle tweezers. “There will be considerable pain. If you don’t consent to the use of a sedative, this could be like torture for you.”

Lee laughs at the sight of the surgeon’s instruments and the mention of torture. In the next instant he’s grimacing, folding his right arm against his stomach, and panting in pain.

“Why laugh? You’re a queer one, Lee.”

“No sedatives.”

“If you’re certain.”

Harry returns to his specially prepared table and sets his instruments down. “I’ll help you lie back now. Slowly, slowly… Good.” He grabs a cloth, dips it in a bowl of water, and sets to wiping away excess blood. Lee closes his eyes and sighs happily for the first time since finding himself on this ship. The cool water feels like a balm against his skin, and Harry’s slow, gentle way with the cloth soothes him. It’s like getting a massage where everything still hurts, but it hurts so good – until he feels the cloth leaving his skin and is shocked by an icy-cold slosh of God-knows-what-liquid across his gut, and it stings like Hell.

“Sorry, a quick cleansing of your wound before I begin,” Harry says. “I must ask you again, are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t like a sedative? Believe me, it would help you endure.”

“One can’t truly appreciate pleasure unless one endures pain.” 

“You’re being very philosophical about this. But you may well change your tune when I set the scalpel to you.”

“Do your worst.”

“Be very still, please.” Harry picks up a scalpel and makes an incision, sending Lee into whimpering spasms.

“Do try not to move so much. I know this is painful.”

“Can’t you be quick about this?”

“I advise you to cooperate,” Harry says with utter calm. “Otherwise, I just might find myself slicing into an area that you really don’t want me to slice into. Think of all the vital organs I could slice by mistake. “Heart, liver, spleen…”

Lee can’t help but laugh again; the irony of it all tickles his brain. 

“Good Lord, why are you laughing?”

“You have quite a way with words,” Lee says, punctuating his sentence with gasps. “Reminds me of… _me_.”

Harry clinks his scalpel down to the side worktable. “You’re delirious, that’s what you are. Consent or no, you _need_ the Peruvian. I’ll not see you suffer.” He rushes to the cabinet, pulls out a bottle, pours a small amount of its contents into a vial, and returns to the table. “I insist that you drink this. _Now_.”

Why not, Lee thinks. An old, creaking ship, antique tables and bottles, oil lamps, no anesthesia, and a man with mutton chops; he doesn’t know exactly where he is, or how he got here, but he’s certainly not in his own century. No harm done if he should happen to let information slip, as no one here would understand anything he might say. “Aye aye, Skipper.” 

Harry lets loose with a loud sigh. “Drink it all down.” He props up Lee’s head to assist.

Lee drinks, winces at the bitter taste, and forces himself to swallow. He feels his head being gently lowered to the table. Soon his right arm slips down like a dead weight to his side. The ceiling is swirling about, and his double’s face is twisting and blurring into various shapes and colours. He hears a soft voice speaking in soothing slow-motion tones. There’s a distinct pressure against his stomach, but no discernible pain. Something is moving about inside him; he can feel the prodding, shifting, and pulling as his double’s voice comes in gentle waves, louder, softer, higher, lower… softer, softer, still softer, until it all fades away. Lee’s vision goes to a deep burgundy, to brown, to grey, to black.

* * * * * * * * * *

Lee hears a voice that sounds very much like his own saying, “You did very well.”

He opens his eyes and squints at the image hovering over him. “Where am I?” Lee asks. “It’s like I’m looking into a fucking mirror.”

“You’re here on HMS Erebus. And I felt I was looking into a mirror when I met you, too.”

“You’re a handsome bloke. Are you me?”

“Hardly,” says the almost-mirror image. “You’re still feeling the effects of the Peruvian.”

“It feels good. Do you like it, too?”

“I didn’t drink any.”

“Why not?”

Lee feels the gentle touch of a hand against his shoulder. “It wouldn’t do for me to use sharp instruments while under the influence of such a medicine.”

Lee considers for a moment. “Am I you?”

The man chuckles. “Not at all. I’m Harry. Do you remember? Harry Goodsir.”

“Oh, yeah. Harry.” Lee smiles – as much as he can, under the circumstances. “You know… I always wondered what I’d look like with mutton chops. Now I know I’ll never do it.”

“Oh? And your hair is ridiculous.”

Lee snickers, then grimaces in pain.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Harry steadies Lee’s shoulders, calming him down.

“The mutton chops suit you,” Lee says after he recovers. “For the kind of man you are. But not for me.”

“Thank you. I think. And your hair… it’s _you_. Certainly not me.”

“And there it is.”

Harry nods. “I’m sorry to have awakened you, but I wanted to let you know that I got that bullet out.”

“Thanks, Matey.”

“You’re going to recover, but you’ll need plenty of rest. Go back to sleep now. I’ll stay here with you, should you need anything.”

Lee looks deep into the doctor’s kind eyes. “I promise I’ll never hurt you, Harry.”

“I beg your pardon? Why say such a thing? Ah, it’s the Peruvian…” Harry smiles and pats Lee’s shoulder. “Sleep. See you tomorrow morning.”

Lee watches as Harry slumps wearily into a nearby chair against the wall, folds his hands in his lap, and leans his head back, eyes closed.

“Harry?”

Harry shifts his weight forward and opens his eyes. Barely. “Yes? Would you like another blanket? Some water?”

“No. Just… Good night.”

Harry smiles and resumes his sleep position. “Good night.” 

Lee waits until this gentle man’s face relaxes into slumber before closing his own eyes. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

He opens his eyes after what seems only a moment later, but judging from Harry’s appearance, Lee knows it’s been hours. Harry is awake, still seated. His eyes are puffy and red, his clothing rumpled, and his hair unorganized, smashed flat against one side of his head and askew on the other. 

Harry greets him with a smile.

“You look a fright,” Lee says.

Harry chuckles. “Good Morning to you, too. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

Harry shrugs. “Some.”

“You stayed here all night, then?”

“I told you I would,” Harry says through a yawn, “and I’m a man of my word.” He rises from his chair and stretches his arms above his head, then arcs then down to his sides with a groaning sigh. His eyes suddenly open wide. “Your back. It must be aching. That table is so hard. I’ll find some blankets to cushion you.” He scurries about the room and returns with several blankets, then works carefully to position layers of cloth under Lee’s shoulder blades and pelvis while offering constant apologies for any pain he may be causing him. “Better? Is that better?”

Lee nods, while wondering, firstly, why Harry is now staring at him, and secondly, what has caused this sudden surge of energy. The man couldn’t have slept much at all.

“You must be famished,” Harry says. “I’ll get you something to eat.” He dashes out of the room.

A few minutes later, Harry returns with a small wooden tray. He sets it down on the cabinet counter next to Lee’s table, then points to items on the tray, announcing each in turn: “Salt meat. Porridge. Ship’s biscuits. Chocolate.” He turns to Lee and smiles. “I hope you like chocolate. D’you like chocolate? I know it’s not traditional for breakfast, but I thought you deserved a treat after all you’ve been through. Oh! Water! How could I have forgotten?” He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a metal cup of water and sets it on the tray.

“Pillows. I should have thought of that before I went to get your breakfast. I’ll get you propped up so you can eat.” And again Harry is off, zipping about the room and gathering up spare pillows.

Something isn’t right about this, Lee thinks. It’s strange the way the man’s been flitting about, changing topics, and speaking in absent-minded monologues ever since he woke up. He’s being especially charming and helpful, but he seems fueled by a nervous energy. 

Lee considers further. He’s seen this sort of behaviour when he’s about to kill or torture someone. The subject’s face grows tighter. The eyes widen. Periodically the person’s gaze will dart about the room and then back at him in a wide-eyed stare. Speech becomes fast, fluttery, and higher in pitch, while sentences generally alternate between short fragments and longer ramblings. He reaches what he feels is the logical conclusion: his double is either hiding something from him or using all the talk about blankets, food, drink, and pillows to avoid introducing a topic he’d rather not address. “Is something wrong?” Lee asks.

“No, nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Harry says as he arrives at the bedtable with pillows. “Come, let’s get you propped up.” They manage to get it done, but not without gasping breaths and groans from Lee and extended apologies from Harry.

“What are you hiding?” Lee asks.

“Hiding? Me? Why, nothing,” Harry says. “Judging by your whiskers this morning, it won’t be long before you’ll have a good, thick beard. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to try growing mutton chops?”

Lee only stares at Harry, curious about what the man will do or say next.

Harry sets his hand on Lee’s right shoulder and nods too many times as he speaks. “Don’t worry. You’re going to recover.”

“You told me that already, Harry. Last night. Now, what _aren’t_ you telling me?”

“Right.” A pause and then a sigh. Harry’s voice goes slow and steady. “About your lung. You’ll need to be careful. No heavy lifting for several months. No unnecessary exertion, and no strenuous physical activity of any kind. Your lung capacity has been greatly compromised, due to the bullet.”

“I expected as much. What else?”

“You had a concern about your left arm yesterday.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t fucking move it.”

“Have you tried since? Could you try now?”

Lee tries, but his arm is totally unresponsive. 

Harry tentatively sets his hand on Lee’s left forearm. “Do you feel anything? Any sensation at all?” Harry lifts Lee’s arm, then runs his palm gently up and down the forearm, on top and underneath.

“No.”

“This?” The upper arm this time. “Or this?” The next fingertip touch, up and down his entire arm, looks like it’s supposed to tickle. 

“Nothing.”

Harry is slowly stroking, and then massaging, Lee’s left palm, fingers, and fingertips. “Are you feeling any of this?”

Lee shakes his head. 

Harry gently folds Lee’s left arm against his chest at a near-ninety-degree angle and sighs. “You’ll recover,“ he says, his eyes large, his brow furrowed. “But it’s not uncommon for a patient with this type of injury to suffer…. that is, to experience… rather, to _not_ experience…”

“Let it out, will you?”

“It may be only temporary, this loss of sensation. And, although it’s still too early to know for certain, there may be nerve damage.” 

“And?”

“Lee, it’s possible that you may suffer partial paralysis, and lose the use of your arm. Permanently. You may need to prepare yourself for that eventuality.”

It’s inconvenient, of course, but it could have been much worse. At least he’s alive. “Good thing I’m right-handed.” 

“I did my best, but it was the path and location of the bullet,” Harry says. His voice sounds heavy with apology. “You may yet regain the use of your arm in the next week or two, but I can’t promise. I’m sorry.” 

“If it happens, I won’t blame you, Harry. And I promise I’ll never hurt you.”

“You said that last night, too. What do you mean by it?” 

“Exactly what I said. But the next time I see Wilson–” 

“Wilson?”

“Wilson Wilson. He’s the one who did this to me. He shot me. When I see him again, I’ll get my revenge.” 

“I understand how you must feel, but do you really think that’s best?” Harry asks. “An eye for an eye?“

Lee laughs. Sweet, naïve Harry. If he only knew…

Harry shakes his head. “Why is that funny to you?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Lee says, knowing that he’ll _never_ tell him. The slight smile on Harry’s face convinces him that the man is appeased for now. “So, several months of recovery, you said?”

“A minimum of two, if you take care not to over-exert yourself.”

Two months. It’s a long time, but Lee knows he’ll be no good to The Network, or himself, if he doesn’t obey the doctor’s orders. Might as well consider this a necessary holiday. He silently vows it will be exactly two months, and not a day longer. There was a way here, so there must be a way back. He’s smart; he’ll figure it out. The Network will assuredly take him back – but he’ll need to come up with a convincing story about why he was gone for so long. It certainly won’t be about time traveling to an old ship.

With everything sorted for now, Lee tucks into his breakfast.

* * * * * * * * * *

Three weeks later, it’s evident that paralysis has set in and that it’s permanent. There’s nothing for it but to adapt. And what’s so bad about losing the use of one arm when you still have another perfectly good arm, two good legs, a sharp mind, and an abundance of talent?

On the plus side, Lee has gained a new shirt, vest, jacket, and pants, socks, shoes, and underthings, courtesy of Harry, who seemed overjoyed to help by sacrificing the extra clothing he had packed for the ship’s journey. Bless the man for trying to be humorous when apologizing that none of the items were yellow.

Lee has also been fitted with outer gear to include boots, gloves, a ghastly-looking hat called a Welsh wig, and a muffler; all helpful for when he and Harry go for their daily walks on the upper deck. This new clothing couldn’t be any further removed from his preferred tailored suits and pointed-toe shoes, but it’s practical for his present circumstance. He’s touched that Harry has set his white patent leather shoes aside for a later time. Good, because he’ll need them when he leaves the ship in five weeks.

Harry is constantly curious about how Lee ended up on HMS Erebus. Although Lee figures it must have had something to do with stairs, all he’ll say is that he was walking along, and – poof! – somehow, he ended up on the ship. He thinks there must have been a portal; a location that served as the transition between his century and Harry’s. Neither man can truly fathom it, yet here he is. Harry presses him for details: Does he happen to remember exactly where he was when it happened, and was he indoors or outdoors? Walking or running? What was he thinking about at the time? And what time was it, _precisely_? Does he remember the exact spot where he might have been when he knew for certain that he was here on this ship? Lee brushes off all questions by saying that since it was all so sudden, he’s not sure _what_ he remembers anymore, shocked as he was by the experience. Harry tells Lee more than once that he’s very interested in experiencing such a phenomenon for himself. The man is a scientist, so Lee knows he’s not going to give up easily. This is just another topic that he’ll need to be careful not to discuss.

Like his occupation. 

He’ll not tell Harry about torturing and killing. He’ll divulge nothing about his past, nor about his activities in The Network. As far as Harry is concerned, Lee Is a locator of rare books – and that’s all he needs to know.

Harry is an excellent host, doctor, and helper. He also loves to converse, which in most cases means that it’s Harry rambling on in monologues, and Lee listening – or pretending to listen. Lee could well write a biography of the man, based on the information he’s learned about him so far. He’s heard so much regarding Harry’s family, his childhood, his brothers and sister, his education, research, and scholarly papers. Lee is amused by the man’s enthusiasm for all things scientific. But really, the anatomy of insects? Genitals of crustaceans? _Crustaceans?_ How is that sort of information useful to anyone? 

When Lee asks about this ship that he’s to occupy for two months, Harry tells him that they’re on an expedition. HMS Erebus and HMS Terror have been charged with finding a Passage to China and India to enable trade, which will thereby benefit England’s economy. The ships began their journey in 1845. 

This is no journey, however. Not currently. Both ships are stuck in the ice, and they all must wait for a thaw, and leads. Lee is going stir crazy after only three weeks; how have the ships’ crews endured so many months in this white, frozen nothingness without going mad?

And the food… oh, the fucking tinned food: _Veal Cutlets Tomata, Ox Cheek Stew, Irish Stew, Carrots in Gravy_ (Who eats carrots in gravy?), _Superior Turtle Soup_ (which is decidedly _in_ ferior), among so many other non-delectable varieties _._ Salt beef and pork are at least palatable, but not gourmet. The porridge is singularly disgusting. Yet, for all his distaste for tinned foods, salt meats, and porridge, he’s actually taken a liking to the ship’s biscuits and chocolates. Harry has made it a point to save his portions of those items and give them to him. A sweet man, Harry.

As for activities, how much reading can a man take? Shakespeare plays, Jonathan Swift, Voltaire, Oliver What’s-His-Name, et cetera, and books with Latin and Greek titles that he can’t pronounce and doesn’t care to pronounce; all rubbish, as far is Lee is concerned, but it does give him something to do. He’s passed through the lower deck when watercolour classes are being held, but they hold no interest for him. There’s music to be heard from time to time; one of the men is a fine fiddler, and Lee enjoys hearing him play – but he never tells him so. That fiddler, like many other men on the ship, would likely jump back in fear. 

The men on the ship are not pleased by Lee’s presence. When he walks alone, many shoot direct looks of scorn in his direction, while others give side-eyed suspicious glances. He doesn’t much care, and he mocks them all by giving back as good as he gets. No one on the ship pays kind attention to him – except for Harry.

When he and his double walk the decks together, they’re the subject of sniggers and sneers. Harry is either ignoring them or being blissfully oblivious; Lee isn’t sure which. But Lee doesn’t like to see the men talking in small groups or whispering as he and Harry walk by. _Yes_ , it’s obvious that he and Harry look alike. _Yes_ , they sound alike. _Yes,_ they even move alike. And _Yes_ , they spend an inordinate amount of time together. With all of the undue curiosity and attention, he and Harry might as well put together a carnival act and charge admission.

Sir John Franklin, Captain of the Expedition, views him as sent from the Devil, according to Harry. Lee thinks it must be because he and Harry look identical; whereas Harry’s facial expression is gentle and warm, Lee is aware that he likely appears the antithesis. Sir John seems genuinely afraid of him, as evidenced by his muttering to the heavens whenever they happen to get within twenty feet of each other. Then, there’s Commander Fitzjames. The man is the picture of pomposity, with tight-lipped disdainful glances being his specialty, and he walks like he’s got an oar up his arse, besides. Harry’s direct superior, Dr. Stanley, is an insufferable bastard whose face holds an expression of perpetual constipation. Lee has witnessed the way Dr. Stanley treats Harry; the veiled insults and criticisms, all delivered with icy sarcasm. Lee tells Harry that he should stand up for himself, but he doubts that he ever will. 

One night on the upper deck, while he and Harry are standing at the railing and gazing out at nothing, Lee makes a proposition. 

“Harry, is there anyone on the ship that you don’t like? And don’t tell me that you like everyone – because that’s impossible.”

“It’s _entirely_ possible. I don’t dislike anyone. There are those I like more than others, of course, but I suppose that’s true of anyone. Why ask such a question?”

“What about Dr. Stanley?”

“He has a lot on his mind. It’s not worth my getting upset over anything he says to me while under stress.”

“That’s not stress, Harry.”

“Then it’s Dr. Stanley,” Harry says with a simple shrug and a smile. “I’ve grown accustomed.”

“Commander Fitzjames?”

“He always has a kind word for me.”

“You wouldn’t know it from that sour face of his.”

“We’re all distracted and upset due to our current situation. Sir John and Commander Fitzjames are likely feeling the worst of it.” 

“Well, if there’s anyone here who ever gives you trouble, no matter who it is, you let me know, and I’ll take care of them.”

“I beg your pardon? Take care of them?”

“I can talk to them and make things better for you,” Lee says. “I can be very effective, Harry.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. As I said, I don’t dislike anyone.“

“Not me. There are plenty of people I don’t like back home.”

“But you have friends, yes?”

“No friends – and that’s how I prefer it. I don’t like most people.” 

“That’s sad.”

“No, I’m being practical.” 

Harry sighs heavily, then turns to him, eyes wide and dark. ”You must be a very lonely man.” he says softly.

“And if I’m so lonely, then why am I standing here next to you and having a conversation?”

“Hmm.” Harry nods, but he still looks forlorn. 

“I’ve done well for myself, being on my own,” Lee continues. “I’m self-reliant. Think about it, Harry: when it comes right down to it, in this life you only have yourself. I learned a long time ago that you can’t depend on people. They’ll either help you, or they won’t. Most don’t. And I don’t have time in my life for people who aren’t useful to me.”

Lee checks Harry’s facial expression to see what his reaction might be. The poor bloke’s already taking this far too seriously. He’s gazing out into the dark with distant eyes, his brows knit together, as if he’s trying to process it all – and it’s taking him far too long. How difficult can it be to understand what he just said? He doesn’t like people. Simple. 

After a time, Harry shakes his head, then turns to address him. “Pardon my asking, but I can’t help but wonder. Do you like yourself?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“No, no. You see, I don’t think you do. Aren’t we all quick to see in others what we recognize in ourselves? If you don’t like others, then it’s reasonable to conclude that you don’t like yourself.”

“Your conclusion, not mine.”

Harry shifts his weight back and away from the railing, his voice assuming a cold tone. “And if you don’t like yourself, then why should anyone like _you_? Maybe you should ask yourself that question.” He makes a pivot, walks behind Lee, and heads slowly towards the hatch.

“But I like _you,_ Harry.”

Harry stops and turns to face Lee directly. “Do you? Or is it that I’m _useful_ to you?”

“You’re overthinking.” 

“I took a bullet out of you, I gave you a new set of clothes, and I’ve been taking care of you while you convalesce, to include those first few days when I assisted you with your most basic bodily functions. I’m _useful_. _”_ He flails stiffened arms away from his sides. “I’ve been helping you dress, and I’ve been trying to help with brushing and styling your ridiculous hair. Useful.” He slaps his arms back to his sides. “I give you my chocolates and ship’s biscuits, and I do my best to keep you company whenever I have the opportunity. We take meals together, and we converse, and – ”

“Calm down.“ Lee rushes forward and claps his hand against Harry’s arm. 

Which makes Harry jerk his arm away. 

Lee makes another attempt, a gentle touch on the shoulder. “Don’t go.” This seems to work; he feels Harry’s shoulder lowering and relaxing. He tilts his head towards their former positions at the railing and raises his eyebrows. “Please?” When Harry nods, they walk silently back and resume standing side by side.

Harry sighs loudly, rests his forearms on the railing, and stares into the dark for a full minute before speaking. “Well.” He clears his throat. “ _If_ I thought that you had any feelings at all, then… I suppose this would be the time that I’d be apologizing for hurting them.”

“And if you were offering an apology, then I would apologize for upsetting you.”

“Would you.”

“I would,” Lee says.

“Accepted.”

“Likewise.”

“Good.”

“Funny, I knew it would happen eventually – but I never imagined it would go anything like this.”

Harry turns his head. “An apology?”

“No.” Lee struggles to keep a straight face. “Our first lovers’ quarrel.”

Harry laughs and slaps Lee’s arm. “What is your problem?”

Lee slowly looks down at his arm, then back up at Harry. “Ouch?”

Harry rolls his gaze upwards and shakes his head.

“Wrong arm, Matey,” Lee says in a deadpan. He hurries to Harry’s left and offers his good arm, shrugging the shoulder repeatedly. “This is the one you want. Go on, now. Hit it. Hard.” He nudges Harry’s shoulder with his.

Harry snickers and shakes his head. “I will _not!'"_

Lee sees a spark in his double’s eyes; something he hasn’t seen yet in the three weeks he’s known him. Lee points to his own chin, thrusting it forward. “Would this be better?” 

“No!” Harry’s laughing again. “Are you mad?” 

Lee wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder and jostles him off-balance, thinking it will make him laugh even harder – which it does.

“You _are_ mad,” Harry says. He leans against the railing again, lowering his head to his forearms, presumably to muffle the sound of his laughter. He may be trying to silence himself, but his body’s shaking so much that he’s having a difficult time controlling his snickering and snorting. 

Lee waits patiently for Harry to recover. When Harry stands upright again, Lee only needs to catch his eye, which causes them to laugh together like schoolboys. When they think they’ve calmed down, they only have to look at each other again – and again – and again – to go into additional cycles of laughter. 

“Shhh,” Harry says between laughs, gesturing in the direction of Sargent Bryant, the marine on duty.

“Fuck him,” Lee says, which sends Harry into another episode of snickering.

Finally Harry gains control of himself. “You’re absurd, and without pretence,” he says, wiping the last tears of laughter from his eyes. “I like being with you.”

“We’re friends, then,” Lee says, confirming for himself that having a friend while here on HMS Erebus won’t compromise him in any way when he returns to the year 2013. 

Harry smiles. “We are.”

“Three weeks we’ve known each other, and I’ve never really heard you laugh. When was the last time you laughed this much?”

“With my brothers. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen them. I didn’t think it would be difficult, but I was mistaken. And now, with the ships being stuck, I don’t know when I’ll be seeing them again.”

“Then I’m glad I could help you to laugh,” Lee says. “I reckon I’m useful to you.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Nothing wrong with it. Friends help each other out. It’s the same thing as being useful.”

“Hmm. Your logic may be off – but it’s not incorrect.” 

“You should laugh more often,” Lee says. “And something else I’ve noticed? You’re finally smiling with your eyes. I’ve seen you smile more times than I can remember since I’ve been here. But up until now, you’ve smiled only with your mouth. Your eyes have always looked sad. Worried. Stressed. It’s all in the eyes, Harry.” 

“Right. And now that we’ve essentially analyzed each other’s minds, I–”

“Yeah, it’s fucking cold out here, and I’m knackered. Time to get some sleep.”

“I need to retire, as well.”

They walk together to the hatch that leads to the lower level of the ship. Harry descends first, and Lee follows.

“And it’s down to slop storage again for me,” Lee says.

“Wait, Lee. How have you been faring, going down those stairs, and sleeping in that storage room?”

“I’m doing all right with the stairs. Still learning to manage the one-arm thing.”

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

Lee shrugs. “Yeah, enough. That mat I’m sleeping on is a bit lumpy, though. I shall complain to the management.”

“Stay in my cabin tonight,” Harry blurts out. “Alone, of course.”

“What about you? You don’t propose to go down to storage to sleep?”

“I’ll go to the sick bay. Remember, I’ve slept there before. I’ll sit down and lean against the wall, get a pillow for my head. Or maybe I’ll sleep on the operating table.” 

“You don’t need to–”

“I _want_ to. You’ve been looking pale and exhausted for days. My bed is quite comfortable, as are the pillows. Come.” 

Harry leads Lee to his cabin and slides the door open, gesturing for Lee to enter first. Once both are inside, he slides the door closed and speaks in hushed tones. “You’ll sleep here tonight. Doctor’s orders.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.”

“Be discreet in the morning, please. You may hear officers moving about. There’s to be a command meeting very early tomorrow, so wait for a lull. When you don’t hear any voices in the hallways, make your exit.”

Lee wonders what he’s done to deserve such kindness and generosity. The answer? Nothing. Harry’s just that warm-hearted. Not like most people.

“Goodnight,” Harry whispers. He smiles, not only with his mouth, but with his eyes. He leaves the room and slides the door closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the wacky premise of this fic came to me, there was no plan for any sexual activity. I started writing it, and ... well, it happened.
> 
> Also, for Utopia folks - part of what I'm wanting to do in this fic is to attempt to give Lee a soul, lol. 
> 
> I should also mention that Shakespeare's words quoted herein belong to Shakespeare - and not to me.

The next morning, Lee makes his usual trip to the sick bay to visit Harry. He’s excited to show him what he has stored in his pocket; the man will be pleased and surprised with what he’s done. He knocks at the sliding door. “Morning, Harry. May I come in?” Without waiting for an answer he quietly enters the sick bay and slides the door closed behind him.

He sees Harry in profile, head bowed, tousled brown curls wisping against his forehead. He’s standing at a table, wiping down a bowl. His shirtsleeves are rolled up past his elbows, displaying forearms of more muscular definition than Lee had imagined them to have. There’s something endearing about Harry at work; the way he tends to his menial tasks with the same meticulous care as when treating a patient. Lee admires the subtle sloping of his shoulders and the gentle curve of his spine from upper back to lower, leading past his waist and to his buttocks. Harry’s weight is shifted forward on one leg which is bent slightly at the knee, showing off a sturdy thigh; something else to admire. 

“Good morning,” Harry says, looking up. “It seems my prescription was effective. You look well rested.”

God, the man has suddenly become gorgeous overnight, Lee thinks. Well, how could he not, since they look alike? But there’s something new in Harry’s eyes; they’ve gained considerable sparkle since they last spoke. His smile has changed, too. It’s wider than usual, genuine, and playful. The man has undergone a transformation, and he seems to have become disarmingly – dare Lee think it? – _sexy_.

“Lee? Hello?” Harry chuckles. “Were you listening? Where did you go?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Lee says. “I brought you something. A peace offering.”

Harry sets down his bowl and cloth. “Why? As I recall, we left on good terms last night.”

“A thank you gift, then. For your kindness in allowing me to sleep in your cabin.”

“Lee, I would never expect anything in return. Your colour’s looking better, and it appears you’ve slept well. That’s thanks enough.” ~~~~

“Call it a gift, then. Just because.” Lee reaches into his pocket and produces a small bundle, wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Is that one of mine?”

“I’ve only borrowed it for this morning. But here, look what’s inside.” Lee sets the handkerchief down and opens it. “I know you like desserts. And you’re always giving me your chocolates, so I thought you might like–” 

“Sweet biscuits? We’ve never had a dessert like this. Where did you get these?”

“From the table in the Great Cabin. They’ve got red currants in them. Tasty; this will be my third one.” Lee picks one up and pops it into his mouth. 

“The Great Cabin? When? How–”

“Before the command meeting,” Lee says while chewing. “I thought Sir John’s monkey was going to give me away, the way he–”

“She.”

“…it started chattering away.”

“You pilfered these?”

“They’re small. They wouldn’t have been missed.”

“You have to take them back.”

“I rearranged things on the plate so they wouldn’t notice. Have one.”

“Take them back, Lee.”

“Come on, now. Two left.”

“No. I’m not going to eat a pilfered sweet.”

“It’s done. No harm in it.” Lee picks up another small round biscuit and eats it. “Mmmm. They’re good.”

Harry shakes his head with a soft laugh. “I have work to do.” He picks up the bowl and heads for a storage shelf.

Lee picks ups the last biscuit and prowls silently behind him. When Harry turns around after storing the bowl, Lee is there to meet him, face to face. 

Harry shimmies sideways and backs up against the wall, laughing. “My, you’re persistent.”

“Last chance.” Lee is only inches away from this charming and awkward man. His joy in pursuing Harry has surpassed that of having stolen an edible gift for him. He holds up the treat at mouth level. “Go ahead, open up.”

Harry sets his hands on Lee’s upper arms, but Lee knows he won’t be pushed away. The mischievous spark in Harry’s eyes tells him so. 

“Come on, Harry. It’s not like this is The Apple. And this ship is anything but The Garden of Eden.”

Harry laughs. “Which means you’re not The Serpent? Because I have my doubts.”

Lee knows Harry must be loving this as much as he is. “Open up, and I’ll pop it right in. You can do it. Open, open…”

The second Harry parts his lips, Lee fools him by holding on to the biscuit and popping it only halfway into his mouth. He focuses on Harry’s mouth as he takes a bite that leaves a powder of crumbs to linger on his lips, while other tiny crumbs tumble downward, settling into dust on his chin and chest. Harry chews and nods in approval, making sounds acknowledging that he likes the taste.

“And the rest of it. Here we go… open up.” He gently puts it into Harry’s mouth and wonders if the man has any idea that his lips, tongue, and teeth have been studied closely over the course of his two bites of the biscuit. 

“Delicious. I do love currants. Thank you.” 

“When‘s the next command meeting?”

Harry laughs. “You will not. You’ve succeeded in corrupting me once, and that will be enough.”

“Ah, but you’ve still got evidence of corruption on your lips. Best get rid of it.” Lee pays rapt attention as Harry slips his tongue out between his lips and licks the crumbs away.

“Your chin.”

Harry flicks the crumbs away with his fingertips. “Good?”

“Oh, and your chest,” Lee says. He brushes his fingertips swiftly across Harry’s chest a few times. Harry joins in, their hands occasionally touching. At each touch, Lee’s nerve endings buzz in his one good arm, his legs, and below his waist. There’s a vigorous hammering behind his breastbone that is steadily increasing in speed, matching the pounding in his ears. “Oh… Harry, look. You missed a spot,” he says, drawing nearer.

“Where?” Harry looks down to his chest.

“Here,” Lee whispers, and he swoops in to capture Harry’s mouth with his. He aims to find the right balance between gentle and firm; gentle enough to be non-threatening, but firm enough to properly convey his intentions. As he deepens the kiss, he steadies himself with his good hand against the wall and leans forward to keep Harry still, while dearly hoping that his bad hand, now paralyzed into a fist, isn’t hurting the man in any way. 

Lee had expected Harry’s body to stiffen in reflex. He also thought he’d need to resist being pushed away – but happily, it turns out there’s no need. Good thing, because he would likely lose that battle; Harry’s two strong arms against his one.

He releases Harry’s lips for the moment but stays close in to speak. “Freaky,” Lee says, “kissing my own mouth. I mean, lips that are exactly like mine.“ Harry’s eyes are wide, but it’s a look of wonder, as opposed to panic. He stirs against Lee’s body in a pitifully weak imitation of attempted escape, but he still hasn’t tried to push him away, and Lee doesn’t want to let him go. “What’s it like, Harry? Being kissed by your own lips?”

“Lee, I… We–” 

“Shhh. It’s all right.” He sets his lips firmly against Harry’s and urges his mouth slightly open. Sneaking a peek at his double, he sees that his eyes have closed. Good. Even better, Harry has lowered his hands to rest at Lee’s waist.

He dips his tongue into Harry’s mouth and explores, gliding across the gum ridge behind his upper teeth and fluttering against his hard palate. Harry gradually changes from reticent recipient to active participant, his body relaxing, his breaths quick and warm against Lee’s upper lip. Lee’s now confident that he can take his hand away from the wall and put it to better use. He withdraws slowly from the kiss, granting Harry a temporary reprieve. 

Harry’s eyes open again. “I-I should be working. Dr. Stanley might…” and his voice trails off to a soft moan as Lee places his hand below Harry’s waist.

“I know you’ve seen my cock,” Lee says, raking his fingertips up and down the length of the bulge in Harry’s trousers. “All those times you helped me during my first week here, you saw it. But I haven’t seen yours yet. We have the same face, same eyes, nose, mouth, hands – and you once told me we have the same feet. But you never told me if we have the same cock. I’m curious to see for myself.” Lee presses his lips against Harry’s in an insistent kiss. 

Harry pries his mouth away. “Not now…”

Lee smiles. This is promising; it wasn’t a hard _No._ “What would it feel like to have my lips – _your_ lips – on your own cock, hmm? And your tongue… And how about the inside of your mouth?” He trails his hand downward to concentrate on the head of Harry’s cock, pressing his hand in slow, small circles against his trousers. “Oh, I reckon now would be good. I’d love to suck you off, Harry – and I want you to come in my mouth. Would you like that?”

Harry’s voice is a ragged rasp. “Not here.” He takes charge, offering a quick kiss of his own before saying, “My cabin.”

Lee sees the gleam of lust in Harry’s eyes, mingled with nervous excitement. He wonders if the impending blowjob will be Harry’s first. If it isn’t, then it will be his first from him – and that, in itself, will be a wonderful thing. He’ll take good care of Harry.

Together they hurry to his cabin, Lee arriving at the sliding door first. He opens it and quickly walks inside, with Harry following behind and closing it to afford them the privacy they need. Harry passes by Lee, makes a swift pivot, and thuds his back against the wall opposite the door. “Here.” 

Oh, Harry. Sweet, lovely, adorably greedy Harry. Would that Lee could drag him away from the wall and bounce him down to his bed, peel away his lower garments and set to work by kneeling beside him – but yes, against the wall would be the best choice at this juncture. It’s what Harry wants, so it’s what he shall have. 

He rushes to help Harry with his waistcoat buttons. It can’t have been a minute since their last kiss, but it feels like it’s been far too long, and he can’t risk Harry changing his mind. He delivers a flurry of fervent kisses as Harry shrugs out of his waistcoat and lets it drop to the floor behind him.

The braces need to go. Their lips still mashed together, tongues teasing and playing in each other’s mouths, Lee slides one down, and Harry, in a frenzy, the other, so that the braces are now hanging freely down from his trouser waistband. 

Lee pulls away from the kiss and drops to his knees. He smiles up at his double, receives a beautiful anticipatory smile in return, then hastily unbuttons Harry’s trouser waistband and fly. Keeping up the momentum, he grasps the waistband of Harry’s drawers and releases all buttons from their buttonholes. Damn not having two good hands; he could have easily pulled trousers and drawers down in one quick motion, but it won’t go that way with only one. He does what he can, desperately yanking at one side until a miracle happens: Harry speedily shucks the layers down to his knees by himself. 

Harry’s long-hemmed shirt has fallen in the process, effectively hiding his cock from view. Lee remedies the situation by bunching up what he can of the hem in his hand and lifting the shirt up to reveal a fully engorged cock that’s identical to his. It’s the same length and girth, and it doesn’t stand straight out from Harry’s pelvis; there’s that same oh-so-slight tilt to the left, just like his. 

Lee pushes the shirt’s hem into one of Harry’s hands. “Hold this up,” he commands. Harry obeys, distributing the hem evenly in both hands and pressing them against the wall.

Lee begins with a teasing touch of his tongue against the head of Harry’s cock, working in slow, wet circles until the entire crimson head is shimmering. Moving on to the shaft, he glides his tongue along the underside, sliding from head to base, and back, but with a pause at a special spot that makes Harry gasp out loud. Oh, that’s the spot, all right, so Lee lingers there, flicking his tongue back and forth; fast, then slow, then faster, and slower, always responsive to Harry’s shudders and moans. He’d love to go on torturing him like this a long time – but Harry’s in a hurry. 

Lee moistens his lips and urges forward, taking the full length of Harry’s cock into his mouth. He lingers at its base, inhaling the intoxicating scent of Harry’s warm sweat and thatched hair. Keeping his lips tight and zigzagging his tongue as he goes, Lee slowly withdraws a few inches, then goes forward, and repeats the motion several times, increasing speed and pressure by degrees. It would be great fun to take Harry to the edge, then bring him back, to the edge again, and back, over and over again – if only they had time… 

It’s obvious that Harry won’t be able to take it much longer; he’s been panting and wriggling, and now that he’s found a rhythm, he’s grunting and bucking his hips in earnest, his hands gripping either side of Lee’s head, small folds of his shirt spilling out from between his fingers. Lee takes this as his signal to get to the finish. He goes fully forward, sucking quickly, rhythmically, preparing for the liquid heat that will soon fill his mouth. Only seconds later, Harry’s cock is pulsing in surrender. 

The sounds that Harry makes at climax are exactly as Lee had imagined they would be. The man doesn’t announce that he’s coming. There are no loud vocalizations; no wordless cries or shouts echoing off the walls. He doesn’t say Lee’s name, and he doesn’t cry out to God while in the throes of orgasm; rather, there are soft gasping sighs and low moans that alternate for the duration. Harry’s sounds of ultimate pleasure are remarkably gentle, just like him.

Although the sounds were delightful, Lee wishes he could’ve seen Harry’s face at his point of no return. He wonders how far open his lips may or may not have been parted, and whether or not he clamped his eyes shut in struggle or kept them closed in a more relaxed way. Did he turn his head to the side? Which side? Or did he tip his head straight back instead? Lee figures he can look forward to watching for the particulars next time, whether it be at the finish of a hand job in the sick bay, a quick tryst in the slop storage room, or at the culmination of a more leisurely shag session here, in Harry’s bed. His cock twitches in his trousers as he pictures the possibilities. 

Lee slowly withdraws, releasing Harry’s cock from his mouth. Scoping his gaze upwards, he sees that Harry’s eyes are still closed, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising and falling with each panting breath. Soon he’ll be opening his eyes, and Lee plans to be looking up at him the moment it happens. 

He gets his wish. Harry’s eyelids slowly open.

“Bravo, Harry. Bravo.” Lee pats the front of Harry’s thigh and smiles up at him.

Harry’s eyes grow large. He pulls his hands away from Lee’s head and drops his shirt hem, letting it fall to cover up his privates. “This cannot happen again,” he says in a tremulous voice.

“Not this quick, I agree. We’ll go slower next time.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head too quickly.

“All right, so maybe not a blow next time. But I still have one good hand,” Lee says, holding it up. 

“No, you don’t understand.”

“Shhh. Calm down. Let’s get you tucked back in, hmm?”

Harry thrusts his hands down in front of his shirt, denying Lee access. “No, I-I’ll do it. Stand up. Please. I’m going to do this myself.” 

Lee rises to his feet and backs up a few steps to give him some space. Harry's in a hurry, and he’s worried about being late; Lee rationalizes. He’d rather not consider that Harry could be regretting what just happened.

Harry keeps his head lowered while he fumbles his way through pulling his up drawers and trousers, and tucking in his shirt, negotiating the buttons and buttonholes along the way. 

“Let me help?” Lee reaches for one of the braces.

“No. Thank you. I can do this.”

While Harry is occupied with pulling up and adjusting his braces, Lee takes a risk and dives for the waistcoat on the floor. He scoops it up and faces him. “How about I help you on with this?”

Harry combs his fingers through his hair from forehead to neck and sighs. The man looks like he’s about to cry. “Mm hmm, yeah. Thank you.” He steps away from the wall and shoves one arm through an armhole, then finds the other armhole himself. Lee assists by sliding the waistcoat up Harry’s back, and dares to offer a few gentle pats on the back when he‘s finished. Harry takes quick steps forward in escape. “I’ll do the buttons.” When he’s finished, he turns around and tugs down his waistcoat. Considering how his eyes are shimmering, it’s amazing that no tears have fallen. 

“ _This will not happen again,”_ Harry says. “Do you understand?”

Not wanting to commit with words, Lee nods – but only because he knows it’s what Harry needs to see. 

Harry rolls down his shirt sleeves and buttons them as he speaks. “We shouldn’t leave together,” he says. “I’ll go first. Please, if you would wait a few minutes? When you don’t hear any motion or voices?”

Lee nods. Poor Harry, doing his best to be polite, saying please and thank you through whatever regret he’s feeling – or thinks he’s feeling.

“Thank you. How’s my shirt collar? My cravat, is it still straight? Is my hair all right? How do I look?”

“Perfect.” It’s an answer easily given; the man is perfectly gorgeous, even while confused and upset.

“Good. Thank you.” Harry goes to the door, but instead of leaving, he pauses for a moment, then turns. “Uh… I-I don’t believe I thanked you for the biscuit.”

“You did.”

“Oh. Good.” He sniffs. “And thank you for making the bed. I noticed it when we came in. I do appreciate it.” 

“Thank you for offering it last night.”

“You’re welcome – but you already thanked me for that. Also… I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll need to brush your hair before you leave,” he says, blinking fast and hard. “I know you must have already used my hairbrush once this morning, so you know where it is. Please, feel free.”

Harry keeps trying to smile, and it doesn’t seem to be working for him. Lee wishes the man would just let go and cry, here and now. Or shout at him. Hurl insults. Throw things. Hit him in anger. Anything but this ultra-polite thing he’s doing now. 

“Lee… Do have a pleasant day,” Harry says. He leaves the room and slides the door closed, leaving Lee to hear the sound of his footsteps fading quickly into the distance.

Lee answers to the closed door. “You too, Harry.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Later that day, near dinner hour, Lee goes to the sick bay. He sneaks quietly to the open doorway and takes a sideways peek inside. Good; Harry’s alone, and there are no patients. Just as he was this morning, Harry’s occupied with wiping down bowls. There’s a hard set to his jaw, and his lips are pressed tightly together. He stands evenly on both feet, his legs and body stiff, and he’s working more vigorously than he had earlier in the day. From where Lee stands, it looks like Harry’s eyes are red. Either the man finally got around to letting himself cry, or he’s still fighting it.

Lee lingers at the doorway, watching as Harry sets down the bowl, rolls cloths, then unrolls them, then rolls and unrolls again. He’s beyond fastidious, organizing perfect pyramids of rolled cloths over and over, and when he’s not doing that, he’s adjusting the bowls on the table, turning them 45 degrees, then another 45 degrees. And then he’s back to unrolling and rolling cloths. 

This has got to stop. Lee knocks at the doorway. “Harry?”

Harry looks up with heavy-lidded eyes and blinks. “Lee,” he says with a perfunctory nod. His face softens just enough to offer a tiny close-mouthed smile that appears to have required too much effort to create. It’s not the best that Lee had hoped for – but it’s _something_. An attempted smile is better than no smile at all. 

“You don’t need permission,” Harry says, looking downward and adjusting a bowl.

Lee inches into the room. “How’s your day been?” 

“It’s sick bay,” Harry says with a shrug, still looking downward. “The usual. Plasters. Pain relievers. Studying.” He sighs and unrolls a cloth that Lee’s seen him unroll and roll twice. “And what have you been doing today?” 

Lee doesn’t like the impersonal tone of Harry’s voice, nor the way he asked the question as if it were his obligation to do so. “Walking the decks,” he says. “Watching people. Listening to conversations. Oh – and reading. I got some Shakespeare from Mr. Bridgens. I think he may finally be warming up to me.” He takes a few steps forward, wishing Harry would look at him again. 

“Good,” Harry says without a glance. He strides to a shelf and works at straightening bottles. “I was catching up on my reading, as well. Medical texts and journals.” 

“I walked into the watercolour class today. I finally tried my hand at it. Stupid idea.” Is Harry even listening to him? He’s not nodding in acknowledgement, and he hasn’t looked at him again since they greeted each other. Lee thought Harry would have been amused at the thought of his being in a watercolour class – but apparently, he was wrong.

“Mm hmm.” Harry is now straightening up the same bottles he just straightened. 

“Oh, and I ran into Sir John today. That was… mystifying.” 

“More so for him,” Harry says, walking to a cabinet next to the table where Lee had lain when having his bullet removed. There are more bottles to be unnecessarily straightened, it seems.

“I’ve also been going up and down steps. Getting my strength back. Exercising.” 

Harry finally looks directly at him to give a doctor’s admonishment, tinged with a friend’s concern. “I told you not to over-exert yourself. It’s been only three weeks. You must be very careful. Your lung, Lee!” 

“I know, I know. But I’m going slowly.”

“Good. It’s exactly what you should do.” Off he goes to the cabinet on the other side of the table. He sets to work opening the cabinet doors and arranging the contents within.

“Harry, I stopped by because it’s about time for dinner. I was thinking you and I-” 

Harry closes the doors and faces him. “We don’t have to do _everything_ together, Lee.”

“You made that quite plain this morning,” Lee says softly. 

Harry chews his lower lip for a few seconds. “You go on ahead,” he says, matching Lee’s quiet tone. “I’m busy.” He turns back to the cabinet’s shelves and sets to straightening bottles. 

“I was hoping you’d join me. No one else will sit with me.”

“You’re self-reliant,” Harry says, his fingers trembling against the bottles. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Come. You need a break from your work.” 

“But I need to tidy things up,” Harry says, his voice breaking. 

“You didn’t see me when I was first in the doorway,” Lee says. “I watched you roll and unroll cloths three times. You adjusted the same bowl four times, and you adjusted another one twice.”

“And your point?”

“Things seems tidy to me.”

“Do they.”

“Harry, I’m sorry. I know I made a mistake this morning.” 

Harry lowers his head and closes his eyes. “Please, don’t do this.” 

“What, am I not allowed to apologize?” 

Harry turns, facing Lee again, and places his hands on the table. “It wasn’t only you. I shared in that mistake.” 

“Even so, I did make an error in judgment. I thought you wanted it.” 

“Oh, I wanted it, Lee,” Harry says slowly, his voice thickening. “I did. And God help me, I enjoyed it. That’s the problem.”

“Why?”

”Because I’m not that sort of man. I’m _not_.” 

“You’re a man who enjoys physical pleasure.” 

“But… not with another man. I’m not that. I hope I don’t seem insensitive – and I promise I’m not judging you, or your own personal tastes. But I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Lee nods, but he doesn’t much like doing it. He’s lost count of how many times – and with how many men – he’s heard these words, or some variation of them, over the years. But this time, it’s different. It hurts. 

“I don’t blame you at all,” Harry continues, “because I consented to it. You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want you to do. At the time.” 

“Fair enough. Maybe you could think of what happened as having satisfied a curiosity?”

“It’s not that simple,” Harry says, lowering his gaze to the table. He runs his hands back and forth along its surface as he speaks. “I didn’t know I was curious. I’d never considered it before this morning. And now,” he says, his voice breaking again, “I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

If ever Harry needed a hug, it’s now – but Lee knows he can’t be the one to do it. Whatever Harry’s deeper conflicts may be, he’s expressing his reality in this moment, and Lee will respect that.

“Word of advice,” Lee says. “ _Make_ it simple. It happened, and nothing will change that. We both made a mistake. Now, we forget about it – and we go forward.” Still hoping to offer some sort of comforting touch, Lee slides his hand across the table, which only makes Harry withdraw his own hands. 

“Simple for you,” Harry says.

“Not as you might think. But I know it’s what I have to do. You should do the same.” 

“I’ll try.” A tiny nod. 

“That’s a start.” Lee pauses for a sigh, and then a smile. “Too bad, though. We would have made a lovely couple.”

Harry shakes his head with a wry chuckle. “Do you _ever_ stop?”

“You cope in your way, and I’ll cope in mine. But look at us, Harry: you have to admit that we _are_ a couple – in a sense – whether we like it or not.”

Harry’s face finally softens enough to afford a true smile. “Friends, yes. But we are not a _couple_.”

“Understood. Oh, and speaking of couples, I meant to tell you this earlier: today I overheard Lieutenants Gore and Le Vesconte talking about staging a production of Romeo and Juliet here on Erebus. An entertainment while the ships are frozen in.”

“When? I’ve not heard mention of this.”

“No performance date yet, but they were talking about scheduling auditions.”

Harry chuckles. “Romeo and Juliet? Who would play Juliet?”

“Jacko, I reckon.”

Harry releases a sputtering laugh. “Jacko?”

“Yeah. The only female on the ship.”

“And I suppose you’ll be auditioning for Romeo?”

“No. That role belongs to Dr. Stanley, of course.”

Harry’s next bit of laughter comes as a rhythmic wheezing of air.

Lee assumes a Dr. Stanley-esque expressionless face. _“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?”_ he says in a flat voice, punctuated by pauses, doing his best imitation of Dr. Stanley.

“Oh, no…” and Harry dissolves into snickers.

_“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon who is already sick and pale with grief…”_

Harry presses his palms against the tabletop for support, succumbing to waves of laughter while Lee recites:

_“That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green…_

“Stop… Stop… ” 

Lee continues: _“…and none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love!_ _”_

“Please… Stop…” Harry collapses over the tabletop, slapping his palm against it while he laughs. 

“Well, I can go further down the monologue if you like.” Lee resumes in Dr. Stanley voice and cadence _, “See, how she leans her cheek upon that hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”_

Harry slowly stands upright again, red-faced, trying to recover – at which point Lee’s suggested Romeo enters the sick bay. 

“Whence comes this atmosphere of frivolity?” Dr. Stanley asks.

Lee snickers, and it’s all too much for Harry, who covers his mouth, but to no avail, because his laughter continues, regardless. He waves one hand in front of him for Dr. Stanley’s benefit, trying to brush it all away. “I’m sorry…” 

“Mr. Goodsir, surely you’d agree that your ‘friend’ should take his leave, in order to restore some modicum of professionalism to the sick bay?”

Harry is hugging himself and trying to quell his laughter by pressing his lips together. He nods, looking at the floor, tiny snickers notwithstanding.

Dr. Stanley turns to Lee and raises his eyebrows. “You may go.”

“Aye aye!” Lee gives him a mock-salute. “Dinner, Harry,” he says as he leaves the room.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s “Irish Stew” for dinner, with ship’s biscuits, a chocolate, and grog. Lee sits alone at a table furthest from the galley, facing the sick bay. He had voluntarily gone to the end of the food line, his successful strategy being that at least one table would be cleared of men by the time his own meal had been served up. Now he takes small nibbles of stew and waits for Harry.

Surely Harry wouldn’t pass up dinner to avoid seeing him? Lee does remember Harry telling him early on that was another mess area where he used to dine – but that was before Lee arrived on the ship. Lee knows it to be in the same vicinity as the officers’ cabins, so if Harry does decide to leave the sick bay, he’ll either meet him at the table, or pass him by. Either way, Lee will wait. Harry will have to come out of sick bay eventually.

Dr. Stanley is the first to appear. He walks swiftly through the deck, stiff-legged, giving Lee a scornful glance as he passes by. It seems an eternity before Harry finally emerges and makes his way to the galley, his eyes lowered. Lee knows that it only takes a minute to be served stew, biscuits, chocolate, and grog, but Harry is standing there all by himself, his back to Lee, and he’s been lingering for several minutes. Could be he’s considering whether he’ll have dinner with him or walk past him. 

When Harry finally turns, he nods to acknowledge Lee, walks straight to his table, and sits across from him. “You are a horrible person,” he says slowly through a smile. He slides a wrapped square of chocolate across the table. “Here you are. The usual.”

Lee happily enjoys it, bite by bite, while Harry tucks into the most disgusting Irish Stew that ever was. Harry hasn’t offered his ship’s biscuits this evening, but Lee doesn’t mind; he figures the man must be ravenous after such a stressful day. 

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with Dr. Stanley,” Lee says.

“Not at all. But he did say that he thinks you’re a bad influence on me. I told him I’m capable of choosing my own friends, and since he’s not my father, his approval isn’t required.”

“And did _that_ get you in trouble?”

“No. He had nothing to say after that.” 

Well, isn’t that something, Lee thinks. The man finally stood up for himself

“You made it all up, yes?” Harry asks. “The whole thing about a production of Romeo and Juliet here on the ship.”

“Why would you think that? I told you I got some Shakespeare from Mr. Bridgens.”

“You lied about that, too.”

“But it was Romeo and Juliet, and that’s the very play I heard the Lieutenants talking about.”

“Lee…”

“You’re too smart for me. I’d been working on my impression of Dr. Stanley for a while, and under the circumstances, today seemed the perfect time to debut it. So yeah, I made up the whole thing. I wanted to see you laugh again, Harry – and you didn’t disappoint.”

When Harry is finished with his meal, he reaches into his pocket and holds up three wrapped squares of chocolate, which he then places in a stack on the table and slides over to Lee. “For making me laugh.”

“How did you get extra-”

Harry rests his forearms on the table and leans forward. “I may have pilfered them about ten minutes ago.” He shrugs, his lips pursed into a conspiratorial smirk.

“I _am_ a bad influence on you.”

Harry’s smirk softens into a captivating smile. “Good, bad, or otherwise, you’re always an influence.” 

“Thanks, Matey.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee makes preparations to go home; back to 2013. Eventually, he is successful in doing so. But he has to go through the big goodbye with Harry first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to try to give Lee a soul. 🤣
> 
> Also, Utopia fans:
> 
> !  
>  **SPOILERS WITHIN!**  
> ! <\-- Only mouse-over this text if you are dying to know what awaits you!

Lee and Harry both go forward.

For two full weeks after that day, Harry shies away from Lee’s touch. Lee may reach out to pat him on the back, and Harry will surreptitiously sidestep to avoid him. When sitting at the mess table, Lee may attempt to touch his arm while sharing a private joke, but Harry reacts by gently withdrawing his arm. It’s sad for Lee, but he also thinks it a bit sweet that Harry’s not being overtly obvious about refusing his touch. With each one being careful not to offend the other, Lee considers it a wonder when they do finally get to the point that Harry comfortably accepts his touch again.

They don’t speak again of their mutual mistake, as much as Lee would like to do so. It’s his opinion that Harry has tastes that he’s denying and suppressing, but he knows that Harry will need to realize and accept the truth in his own time, and on his own terms. Lee won’t push the matter. It may take years for Harry to admit to himself that, at the very least, he could enjoy sexual pleasures with women _and_ men, just as Lee does. But if Harry should happen to bring up the subject in the next few weeks, Lee will be there for him, ready to listen and help him through it – and ready for whatever else might occur afterwards. 

Lee and Harry are back to their usual routines: having meals together, conversing in the sick bay, and taking nightly walks on the upper deck, all complete with the return of friendly pats on backs and shoulders, touches on arms, and the occasional playful jostling. Whenever Harry is feeling down, Lee only has to bring out his imitation of Dr. Stanley to set him laughing again. He’s also recently added Sir John, Commander Fitzjames, and Mr. Des Voeux to his repertoire, to Harry’s amusement. 

Harry has been talking more about his brothers recently, and about how much he misses them. He confides that Lee is the closest thing he has to a brother at present, and that he’s grateful for it – which leaves Lee speechless. How is he supposed to respond, having never had a brother or a sister? He’s not comfortable with it; Harry’s too emotionally attached. It won’t be easy when it comes time to Lee to go back home.

Only three weeks from now.

Lee knows he’s gone soft – and the longer he stays on this ship, the worse it could get. He never intended to care this much about Harry. He’s never cared about anyone this much. In fact, he’s never cared about _anyone_ – and that’s what makes him good at his job with The Network. Lee’s resolved that he and Harry will remain friends for as long as he decides to remain on the ship – but it won’t be for much longer. This problem with his feelings for Harry is muddling his mind, and it could be delaying his recovery.

Lee’s aware that he’s been losing his touch for stealth; he’s been out of practice for five weeks. Yes, he managed to get away with taking sweet biscuits from the Great Cabin, but it was done more as an exercise in seeing if he still had the talent for it – and it was a close call, what with Jacko sounding the alarm. But he knew for certain that his skills were slipping when he was caught – not once, but twice – looking at surgical tools in the sick bay.

The first time, when Lee thought he had absolute privacy in the sick bay, he found a leather case filled with tools, placed it on the surgery table, and opened it up to take a look. He was able to get only a perfunctory glimpse at the array: scalpels, flat double-edged knives, pliers, short scissors, a long, curved tool that looked like a combination of scissors and probing tool – and a saw, of all things – before Harry unexpectedly entered the sick bay. In a panic, Harry angrily scolded him, rolled up the leather case, tied it closed, shoved it into the cabinet drawer, and banished Lee from the sick bay for rest of the day. But even with that short-lived glance, Lee was conjuring up images in his mind of all the wonderful ways he might use some of them as implements of torture. Especially that saw.

The second time he was caught, he received the same admonishment from Harry, but Lee played the innocent, saying he was curious about the tools Harry may have used when he took the bullet out of him. Would Harry mind showing him which tools were used, and explaining specifically what they were used for? Please, could he tell him about all of the other instruments in the collection, to satisfy his curiosity? Harry succumbed and indulged him by describing each tool in detail, setting Lee’s thoughts flying in all sorts of directions as to how he might use them in his own profession. 

For another mind-sharpening exercise, Lee has taken to fantasizing about how he could torture or kill people using other available items on the ship. He has no designs on the crew of HMS Erebus – but if he did, he could take an unopened Goldner tin and whack someone hard against just the right spot – or spots – on the head or the back of the neck. A pot or pan from the galley could be used to similar effect. He could take a sharp cooking knife and stab someone repeatedly in the chest or puncture someone’s neck. In another scenario, he might break one of the ship’s fine china plates and use a shard to slice someone’s neck, starting at the jugular, and going across the front of the neck to the other side. Lee knows he could still fire a pistol with no problem. A rifle might be more difficult, but if he were to prop it against his stomach, he could manage it. So many possibilities, to include dining utensils: knives, forks, spoons…

While at dinner, Lee will sometimes gaze pensively into his teaspoon. When he looks at his reflection, he notes that he looks different somehow, aside from needing a haircut. His expression seems to have softened, likely a result of being on holiday, and being in Harry’s company. Ah, the spoon: it’s been his favorite instrument of torture for years, but he wonders if he’ll ever use one in that way again, given the consequences of his most recent episode with Wilson. Maybe he’ll change his specialization to pulling out fingernails instead.

Harry asks him about his obsession with the spoon during dinner one afternoon. “You look at it like it’s a magical thing. It’s only a spoon. What fascination does it hold for you?”

Lee covers with a quick lie. “I collect them. You know those souvenir spoons that people get when they go traveling?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Some collect thimbles. Others collect snow globes or shot glasses. I’ve been collecting souvenir spoons for years, and I’ve got dozens of them. London, Manchester, York, Bath, Brighton, Stratford on Avon, Oxford University, Westminster Abbey–”

“But you don’t use them for anything?”

“Only one. In fact, I used it not fifteen minutes before we met.”

“But wait, you were shot. You’re telling me that you used a spoon, and you were shot – and both in the space of those fifteen minutes? How–”

“Wilson didn’t much like that I owned that particular spoon, and that he didn’t have one himself, so he shot me. Collector’s envy, I reckon.”

“What? He shot you because of a spoon?”

“The spoon collecting community can be a ruthless bunch, Harry. You’d be surprised.”

* * * * * * * * * *

One week short of the two-month minimum that Harry had prescribed for full recovery, Lee feels he’s ready to go home. He’s sharpened his creative mind, he’s successfully carried out additional experiments in stealth, and he’s become much better at telling lies. Thoughts of killing and torture now occupy his mind more often than thoughts of Harry, and that’s a good sign. He’s ready. It’s a relief to know that he’ll finally be able to take the burden off Harry, move on with his own life, and go back to work.

Now all he needs to do is figure out that damned portal.

He knows it has something to do with the stairs that lead from the orlop to the lower deck. In this, Lee’s final week on the ship, he’s been rehearsing; experimenting with varying his speeds of ascent and descent and testing how much weight he might need to use in stepping up and down, all while keeping himself steady by grasping the side rope. He tries starting with the right foot, and the next time, with the left. One time he might stomp all the way down, and the next, he’ll sneak down with cat-like steps. He tries alternating heavy steps with light, one step at a time. There are so many factors to consider, and still he struggles to find the correct combination of those factors. He wonders what he’ll do if he should manage the portal before the two-month mark, and decides he’ll worry about that if and when it happens. When he gets tired or frustrated in his attempts, he takes breaks, roaming the decks and pacing back and forth, thinking about what he’ll do when he goes back to 2013.

During one of his pacing sessions on the lower deck, Lee sees something disconcerting that stops him in his tracks: Harry is going up and down those same stairs between the orlop and the lower deck. And up. And down. Repeatedly.

Oh God, no. They’ve talked many times over the weeks about the phenomenon of time travel, and Harry has been annoyingly persistent with his questions about how Lee thinks he ended up on the ship, but Lee doesn’t remember saying anything about the stairs-as-portal connection. Ever. Harry must have been spying on him during one of his sessions on the stairs. _Now_ who’s good at stealth? 

Lee attempts to rectify the situation the next time he sees Harry. He mentions that he’s feeling much stronger now, able to go up and down steps for up to ten minutes at a time without getting winded, and that he looks forward to going home soon. Harry only nods in response, offering no verbal clues that he may know that Lee is experimenting in the general location of the portal. But as Lee once noted about Harry – and told him, as well – it’s all in the eyes. Harry knows.

The day after speaking with Harry, Lee rises earlier than usual and skips breakfast. It’s been exactly two months since he arrived on the ship, and he’s determined that this will be the day he leaves, no matter what. He runs through the orlop deck and heads for the stairway, his heart thrumming. Arriving at the stairs, he shakes the nervous jitters out of his arm and legs. A deep breath, and up he goes. Right foot first, slowly, carefully, step by step, hanging on to the side rope with his hand, and hoping for that orange-yellow flash of light.

He goes all the way to the top. Nothing.

Of course nothing happened; he remembers that he was climbing up the ladder of the fallout shelter when he ended up on the ship. Logic tells him that to get back to the fallout shelter, he should be descending. Slowly he starts with his right foot and goes straight down to the bottom, but without experiencing the desired result. Up and down he goes, several times, changing his starting foot each time, going consistently slow or fast, light or heavy. Then, starting fast and slowing down during the descent, and vice-versa. He tries every variation he’s already tried in the past week that hasn’t worked, while hoping one of them will work _this_ time. As he continues working his way up and down the ladder, Lee’s thoughts become a maelstrom of doubts and fears. He’s beginning to worry that he’ll never get back to 2013. 

He tells himself not to panic; it will do no good. He needs to think.

Then it comes to him – and he has to laugh.

For someone who’s supposedly smart, he’s made some stupid mistakes lately. He almost blew up Doomsday Comics, with he and Arby still inside, because he wanted to light up a fag after he had already opened the gas lines. The next day, he found the _Utopia, Part Two_ manuscript in Bejan Chervo’s apartment – but because he put it into his yellow bag and then deserted it to watch Arby at work questioning Bejan, it was stolen by Grant Leetham. Top it all off with being shot by Wilson Wilson the day after that.

This week’s stupid mistake: forgetting that when he went up the fallout shelter ladder, he was seriously wounded. After all this nonsense about building up strength, exercising, and practicing different ways of going up and down the steps, what he needed to do was to simulate how he was moving after he was shot. It’s not a time in his life that he wants to relive, but he must reconstruct what he was feeling, and how he was moving – only in reverse.

He closes his eyes and pictures it in his mind. He only had the use of one arm at the time, and that hasn’t changed. He was grasping the side and rungs of the ladder itself and – Ah! That’s it! – _there was no side rope_. He remembers angling his body to be as flush against the ladder as he was able, and… it’s coming back to him now… _he was two-footing each rung_ , and – why didn’t he think of it before now? – _sidestepping._

He opens his eyes and takes a quick look around to make sure he’s not being observed. With confidence renewed, he holds onto the ladder itself and sidesteps his way down the steps with great effort.

And fails.

He goes up to the top and tries again, starting with the other foot. Still not right, but his instincts tell him he’s getting close.

He goes up to the top again, and descends…

…until his left foot slips on the fourth step from the bottom. He steps back on, and – W _ait, what? –_ an orange-yellow burst of light and heat surrounds him. He did it; he’s now on the ladder of Wilson’s fallout shelter. He laughs out loud in triumph. Apart from two-footed sidestepping and holding on to the ladder itself, it was about slipping on that particular step. That must have been how he ended up on Erebus – by slipping on that same rung of the shelter’s ladder, going up, after he was shot.

He goes down to the third rung, stands on it, and considers: Could he do it again? Go back to Erebus? Purposely, and not accidentally? On impulse, he attempts it, slipping and replacing the same foot on the fourth rung, and succeeds in feeling the warmth, seeing the light, and ending up on the wooden steps in Erebus. 

It strikes him that it may have been a Lee-stupid thing to do. He hopes he’s not stuck on this ship again. But he knows what to do. He goes up a step, then down, slips with the same foot on the same step, and he‘s back on the ladder in the fallout shelter. He makes a game out of it, going back and forth two more times, and ends the game on Erebus. Now he knows exactly how to leave the ship; he’s done it four times in the last few minutes.

He realizes that the Old Lee would have stayed in 2013 the moment he found the secret of the portal, and he would have never looked back again. The New Lee knows that Harry deserves a proper goodbye. He’ll keep it as short as possible, be on his way, and then forget all about him.

Besides, he wants his white patent leather shoes that Harry’s been keeping for him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Lee hurries toward the sick bay, thinking Harry is likely to be there at this early hour. He slides the door open without knocking first and speeds into the room, his words coming in a flurry. “Harry! The white shoes I was wearing when I came onto the ship, do you still have them? Where are they?”

Harry looks up from his morning bowl cleaning and raises his eyebrows. “More tea than usual this morning?”

“No. None. No tea at all. Where are my white shoes?”

“Bottom section, bottom shelf,” Harry says, gesturing to a cabinet by the operating table. “Why?”

Lee flings the doors open, grabs his shoes, and slams the doors shut.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks.

Lee slips off the black shoes that Harry gave him and kicks them aside. “I waited the entire two months for recovery, as you suggested.” He maneuvers his feet into his favourite white loafers. “Now it’s time for me to go home.” 

Harry sets down his bowl and cloth. “No!”

“Yes.”

“I said a _minimum_ of two months.”

“I’m well enough, don’t you agree? Just the other day you were telling me that I had surprised you with how fast I had recovered. _Past tense_.”

“Yes, I did say that, but–”

“Then it’s settled. Goodbye, Harry.” Lee turns to go.

“No, wait! Lee!” It’s an unexpectedly impassioned shout. 

Lee knew that this wasn’t going to be easy on Harry. Part of him wants to keep walking away to make it a quick, clean separation – but another part of him tells him that he should attempt to let the man down gently, using logic. He turns around. 

Harry stands there, arms bent at the elbows, his hands open. His facial expression is full of panic. “Does it have to be now?”

Lee nods. 

Harry combs the fingers of one hand though his hair. “So… You - you’re going to leave, just like that, with no warning? Can’t you stay one more day? I-I’m not ready for you to go.”

The fact is that Harry will never be ready – and there’s no way that Lee will honour his request. That’s all he’d need; Harry glomming onto him for an entire day, constantly pleading for him to stay, and looking at him with those big brown puppy dog eyes, trying not to cry. “Sorry, Matey,” he says. “It’s time.” 

“So, you found the portal?” Harry takes a few eager steps forward. “Take me with you!”

“No. There are people who need you here.”

“Doctor Stanley will be here. No one will miss me. I know _he_ won’t.”

“You’d definitely be missed. You have a job to do here, Harry. I need to go back to my job, and to the people who need me.”

“I could help you with locating books. I could learn. Wouldn’t it be fun to see if any of my writings could be found in some library in the future? Maybe my paper on the anatomy of Forbesia?” He chuckles, but it’s all nervousness.

“Look, you don’t belong in 2013 London any more than I belong on a ship that’s stuck in the ice in the middle of nowhere in eighteen hundred fuckty-whatever-year-this-is.”

“Forty-seven. The year is eighteen hundred and forty-seven.”

“You’re here where you belong, and now I’m going back to where I belong. Don’t you understand? Everything’s as it should be.”

“Then why did you end up here in the first place? Have you ever wondered? Maybe you’re _supposed_ to be here.”

“I was injured,” Lee says. “I needed a doctor, and you were here for me. I don’t know why it happened like this – and I didn’t ask for it. You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be.” 

“But… there will be a thaw soon. We’ll find the Passage, and then we’ll be sailing to the Sandwich Islands. I hear it’s a beautiful place. Wouldn’t you like to go there with us? Why not stay another day and think about it?”

Lee is tired of the bargaining. He raises his voice and gestures about the sick bay, indicating the walls and implying the space beyond them. “Harry, this isn’t for me. None of this is me. I’m bored to death. I’m sick of eating the revolting slop from those tins. I haven’t had a thick, juicy steak in months. I’m tired of using a wash basin when what I really want is a long hot shower or a bath. I need a haircut. And I want clothes. _Real_ clothes, not these. Besides, it’s too fucking cold here. I can’t stand this any longer. I’m leaving today.”

Well, looks like raising his voice and going on a tirade wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Harry’s eyes are shimmering. “If you think that’s best,” he says, barely getting the words out.

“I do.” Time to calm him down with more rationale. “Harry, I’ve never told you this, but I have another job besides locating books. I need to get back to that job, too.”

“What is it? Is it something I could learn?”

Lee wasn’t expecting that response. He chooses his next words carefully. “You, of all people, couldn’t – and shouldn’t – learn it. I work for a special organization. Sometimes I work with a partner, and sometimes alone. That’s all I can tell you.”

“So, it’s like a secret?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m very good at keeping secrets.” 

“So am I,” Lee says firmly. 

“Oh.”

“The work you do here is important,” Lee says. “You know that. It’s your life’s work, and you trained for it. You need to continue being a good doctor.” 

“But technically, I’m not–”

“The work I do is important, too. I’m good at it – and I enjoy it. It’s fulfilling. Would you want to deny me that?”

“I’m sorry if I seem selfish. But... I wasn’t expecting you to leave so soon. Not today…” 

Lee speaks gently. “Tomorrow, the next day, or the day after that, next week, or next month, I reckon we’d be having the same discussion.” He softens his tone further. “You’re gonna have to let me go, Harry. It’s the best thing for both of us – and you know it.” 

Harry acquiesces with a deflating sigh, and then a nod. “Aye aye, Skipper,” he says with a weary attempt at a chuckle.

Bless Harry for trying, but Lee can’t laugh. It’s pitiful that Harry would borrow his phrase in an attempt at humour. “I’ll be off, then,” Lee says. He rushes out of the sick bay and closes the door; a clean break.

Only four strides down the walkway towards the portal stairs, he hears Harry’s voice and footsteps behind him. 

“Wait, wait!” Harry catches up and grabs his arm, forcefully pulling him to a stop and meeting him face to face. “Please, don’t go yet. You didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye. I have a farewell gift that I’ve been saving for you, and I’ll need to get it from my cabin. I’ll only be a minute or two. Promise me you’ll wait?” 

Lee nods, and Harry runs off to his cabin.

He returns two minutes later, holding a rolled-up silk handkerchief. He speaks between panting breaths. “It’s inside. Please, open it now. Keep the handkerchief, too.” 

Lee unrolls the handkerchief and relaxes into a smile. He’s discovered a silver teaspoon with a fan-shaped handle. 

For the first time since Lee broke the news about his leaving today, Harry is smiling. “For your collection,” he says.

“This crest on the front. Latin?”

“Spero meliora. It translates to _I aspire to greater things_.” 

Of course, Lee thinks. Of course Harry would live by such a motto.

“Turn it over,” Harry says. 

On the back of the spoon’s handle are the engraved letters: H.D.S.G. “Your initials. Your spoon?”

“Yours now. A souvenir, and something to remember me by. Please accept it.” 

“Are you certain?”

“I have others. I’ll wager no one in the future owns a spoon from this expedition. It’ll be a true collector’s item, yes?”

“Absolutely.” 

Harry chuckles. “But whatever you do, don’t tell Wilson that you own this spoon.”

“Oh, I won’t. Not after what happened last time.” Lee tucks the spoon and handkerchief neatly into a trouser pocket. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything for you.”

“You don’t need to. You’ve given me so much already,” Harry says. The big, brown, shining puppy dog eyes make their appearance.

And if this moment isn’t awkward enough, here comes Dr. Stanley, and he’s heading to the sick bay. “Mr. Goodsir,” he says as he approaches, ”you should be tending to your duties in the sick bay, and not wasting your time with… _him_.” 

“I’ll be there in a minute or two.” 

Doctor Stanley emits a long, exasperated sigh, steps into the sick bay, and slides the door closed.

“Right,” Lee says. “I’ll be going now.” But he doesn’t. Harry looks too distraught for him to just turn and go without saying anything else. “I’ll never forget what you did for me, Harry. You saved my life.”

Harry shrugs through a sad smile. “Just doing my job.”

“Handshake?” Lee offers his hand. 

“No.” Harry storms forward, pulling Lee into a vice-grip of an embrace. Lee is initially caught off-balance but shifts his weight forward to regain his footing. He slowly reaches up to pat Harry on the back a few times, which only makes him squeeze harder. Lee wonders if this is what it would feel like to hug a brother.

And, oh no – he hears a few soft sniffles and feels Harry’s body shuddering against his. All those times when Lee saw him holding back tears in the last few weeks – and now, this is it: he’s finally crying. Lee knew that this wouldn’t be easy for Harry; now he realizes that it’s becoming more difficult than he had imagined for himself, as well. He holds on tight and waits it out, until Harry releases him and backs up a step.

“I’ll miss you,” Harry says, wiping tears away with his fingertips. “I wish that I… that we–”

 _“Mr. Goodsir!”_ comes Dr. Stanley’s voice from the sick bay.

Harry winces – and did Lee really hear him say _Fuck_ under his breath? He’s not certain, but what he does hear is Harry saying out loud, “I need to go.” 

Lee nods. “Goodbye. You go first.”

Harry steps forward, grabs Lee’s upper arms, and plants a quick, firm kiss on his cheek. “Goodbye.” Just as quickly, he releases him, turns around, and dashes into the sick bay without looking back.

Lee’s sigh is a mixture of relief and sadness. After eight weeks, it’s all over. He and Harry are finished. Now free, he should be hurrying to the steps and going home. Instead, he’s standing still, right where Harry left him, and stuck to the spot. He slowly takes Harry’s spoon from his pocket and looks at his reflection. Damn them looking identical. He knows they’ll never truly be finished, because from now on, every time he looks at his reflection in a spoon, or a mirror, or windowpane, he’ll see a little bit of Harry, and be reminded of their time together. Right now, Lee can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. 

He studies his reflection further, making a conscious effort to take as much Harry as possible out of his facial expression so he can move on. As Lee thinks ahead to his reunion with The Network, where he can be self-reliant, make proper use of his intellect and talents, and not be hindered by emotions in any way, his lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk, while his eyes regain their former expression of cool confidence. There. That wasn’t so difficult, after all.

No longer stuck, he stuffs the spoon back into his pocket and walks to the stairs to make his final trip through the portal.

Standing at the top of the ladder, he says his goodbyes out loud to a seemingly deserted lower deck. “Goodbye, Harry – and bugger everybody else! I do hope you lot find the Passage, but you’re gonna bloody well do it without me!” 

Lee descends, doing everything as he had minutes earlier: holding on to the ladder, sidestepping, and making that crucial left-footed slip and re-step on the fourth step from the bottom.

The orange-yellow burst of light and heat are the welcome signs that Lee’s successfully made his way back to the fallout shelter. He remembers that Wilson had food stores; maybe he can come up with a snack or a drink before leaving the shelter for good. He decides to inch his way down to the floor to have a look around.

Turns out the shelter is empty. No bunk beds, no table, no chairs, no shelving, and no stores of any kind. Deserted. No signs whatsoever that a scene of torture had taken place here. Even his blue suit jacket is gone. The house must be for sale, Lee thinks. Well, he did kill Wilson’s dad, so it’s likely Wilson needed to sell if he couldn’t pay the mortgage on his own. Or it could be that Wilson offed himself after finding out his dad had been killed, while also having to deal with his own change of fate. Possibly a realtor’s now in charge. No matter, Lee will find food somewhere else. It’s not the first item on his list. 

He paces the room, making a mental list of everything he needs to do: Find Milner. Get a phone. A gun. Tools of torture. A bag. Food. Get a haircut. But first things first; he needs a new suit. In yellow. It has to be yellow. 

He quickly makes his way up the entire ladder and ends up outdoors, on the grounds of Wilson’s house. No snow, no ice; just green grass and trees. The sky isn’t grey and overcast; rather, the sun is visible, and the sky is a beautiful vibrant blue with fluffy clouds. He takes a full breath of fresh, warm 2013 air, and sighs. At the end of his sigh he hears a loud thud coming from below – and then, a voice that sounds too much like his own, calling out, “OW! Hello? Hello?”

God, no. It can’t be him, Lee thinks. It _can’t_ …

He crouches down and peeks through the trap door opening, confirming his fears: Yes, it’s his mild-mannered double, lying on his back on the floor of the shelter, grinning and looking up at him.

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here?” Lee shouts.

Harry laughs and waves at him. “Hello, Matey! I found the portal!”

THE END...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with me this far, then I offer you a hearty slice of my gratitude! Thank you so much for reading. I had an absolute blast writing this; you have no idea. And believe it or not, I have a proposed sequel outlined. 🤣 Whether it ends up happening or not, who knows? So many plot bunnies, so little time! 🐇 <\--- Ha ha, an appropriate emoji for Utopia, eh?
> 
> HOWEVER - If the idea of a sequel sounds even remotely interesting, let me know. Then I'd be more likely to do one. 😁


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